Walk Of Life
by movieholic
Summary: He looked like an entirely different person than the hard-ass she had met before. She was curious as to what had changed over the past years.
1. Chapter 1

"Agent Fallon?" The female's tone sounded incredulous, which put the former agent on high alert. He whirled around to greet the voice's owner.

When his sharp eyes landed on a familiar detective, he allowed himself to visibly relax. "Detective Beckett," he greeted, holding out his hand for a shake.

She reached forward and grabbed his offered hand, pumping it up and down as she took in his casual attire. The man cleared his throat politely after a beat too long.

"Uh, Detective?"

Beckett's eyes snapped up to search his face, just as his traveled down to their still clasped hands. "Mind if I get that back?" The tone of his voice suggested that he could have been joking, but she couldn't tell either way.

"Yes. Yeah. Sorry," she hurriedly blurted. She released her firm grip on him. "I'm sorry."

"So you've already said." He perked a dark brow at her. "Are you okay?"

He could see her mouth working to form the programmed response for whenever someone asked that question, but the words didn't fall out as easily as she thought they would. Instead, she raked a hand through her brown tresses and shook her head. "Not really, no."

She seemed as surprised at her blatantly honest answer as he did, and for some reason that made the agent feel a little better at having run into a former acquaintance. Normally, those situations didn't end well and were more than a little uncomfortable for both parties.

Fallon glanced down at his watch, and then back to Beckett. "I don't have to be anywhere until later. Would you like to grab a cup of..." He trailed off and looked her up and down. He noted how tired and rundown she appeared, and gave her a small smile. "Something?"

Confusion and surprise battled for a place on her face, and Fallon couldn't blame her. The last time they had spoken, there was a nuclear bomb about to blow New York into oblivion, and he had been overwhelmingly tense and unpleasant to deal with. He held up two fingers, slightly spaced apart. "Just a drink. No funny business. Scout's honor."

A smile finally graced her countenance, and then she let out a little laugh. "That's the peace sign. You were never in the Scouts, were you?"

Fallon shared her grin, and shook his head as he lowered his hand. He shrugged. "I never claimed I was."

This time it felt like he was under _her_ scrutiny, as she scanned him from head to toe. She took in the worn jeans, and the white v-neck tee he wore. He was even smiling, barely, but it was there and it was noticeable. He looked like an entirely different person than the hard-ass she had met before. She was curious about what had changed over the past years.

"You know what? A drink sounds wonderful."

She kept the "Hell, why not?" to herself.

* * *

Several minutes later the two occupied a corner booth of a dimly lit and practically empty bar. Beckett settled into her seat as she watched Fallon stride across the room and raise his hand to get the bartender's attention. She allowed herself the alone time to study the man she thought she knew. The way he moved and conducted his body was like a groomed boxer striding down the hall before the big championship showdown. He commanded attention and respect, but he also seemed less intense than before. She watched as he came back, carrying two glasses. He set the one full of an amber liquid before her, and then slid into his seat.

She carefully picked her drink up, and took a sip. She grimaced but nodded.

"I wasn't sure what you drank, so I took a gamble."

"Bourbon. It's right for the occasion," she replied, taking another sip. She watched as he took a long draw from his own glass, and when she squinted she realized it was water. "Now that's hardly fair," she said, motioning to his glass.

He smiled faintly, almost painfully, and shrugged. "Six months sober." He canted his head to the side. "To the day."

"Oh." She pursed her lips in thought. "Congrats."

He nodded curtly. "Thanks."

They sat in relative silence for a few more minutes, before Beckett shook her head and sat back. "Okay, what gives?"

"I'm sorry?" He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what's with you? You've changed. A lot." She frowned and added, "You're _nice_," almost distastefully.

To her surprise, he threw his head back and let out a barking laugh. "Yeah," he sighed, "I guess I am."

"So?" She cocked a brow, awaiting his answer.

Suddenly, the man before her seemed uncomfortable. "I was 'relieved of duty,'" he stated, drawing out the phrase with a mixture of disgust and anger. To her inquisitive expression, he pressed on. "Do you remember when I pulled my gun on Hayes?"

"Yes." How could she forget?

"And you pulled your weapon on me?"

"Yes." Occasionally she had nightmares.

"Well," he leaned back, "This time they didn't call my bluff." He carefully tugged at the collar of his shirt, revealing a nasty warped scar at the base of his neck, close to his left shoulder. It looked painful, even now. "I crossed the line, and was shoved back into place. The hard way."

Beckett winced and found herself leaning forward, almost fascinated by the pink and purple puckered flesh. She reached out, until she realized what she was doing and snatched her hand back. She looked up, and Fallon met her hazel-eyed gaze with his own. "It's okay," he murmured.

She touched it with as much tenderness and care as she could, as if any force would reopen the wound. "Ouch," she whispered, before resuming her seat.

Fallon gave her a wry grin. "Tell me about it."

She almost wanted to reveal her own scar, but the location wasn't exactly the best for show and tell. She settled for, "Oh, I know." His eyes bored into hers, and flicked down her body, as if looking for the proof. His face softened.

The detective took another sip of her drink, and cleared her throat. "So, what happened then?"

"Medical leave." His tone was as clipped and blunt as she remembered. "I had no job. I had no-" His voice broke, but it was so brief that it was nearly unnoticeable. "No family. I kind of lost my mind." He forced a quiet laugh, but didn't look up from his lowered gaze.

Beckett recalled what Ryan had shared with her and Castle, years ago, about the agent's wife. Not only had she been killed during the 9/11 attacks, the poor man had been on the phone with her when she had died. She couldn't imagine the grief and pain that came with that kind of knowledge.

"What did you do then?"

He glanced up, and frowned. "What do you mean?"

She waved her hand in the air. "You know, what did you do then? You're obviously not in that place anymore."

"I got a dog."

She nearly choked mid-sip. She grabbed for a napkin, then dabbed at her wet lips. With a slight hoarseness to her voice from the burning alcohol, she replied, "A dog?"

"Yeah. A dog." He took a sip from his water, and grinned almost boyishly at her. He looked years younger when he did. She thought he should do it more often. "They're therapeutic as hell. You should think about getting one yourself, Beckett."

"Oh, no." She shook her head in amusement. "No, no, no."

"C'mon," he said with a slight laugh, leaning forward. "Why not?"

She looked at him as if he had grown a third head. "First off, my _job_ isn't exactly conducive to having a pet of any kind, much less a dog."

He tilted his head to the side, in concession to her response. "True, but-"

"But nothing, Fallon." Her smile widened, and she laughed once.

There was another moment of quiet, filled with the tinkle of ice against glass from Fallon's empty cup. But this silence was nowhere near as uncomfortable as when they first entered the bar. In fact, it was companionable, and Beckett was surprised that she could use that word in the same area that Fallon occupied.

"A ferret then?"

This time Beckett couldn't suppress the burst of laughter from escaping her lips. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold the bourbon in her mouth rather than spitting it all over the former agent and the table between them. Once she managed to swallow, she winced and coughed. "Oh, wow, that burns!"

"Want a sip?" He offered her his glass, and she shook her head. "Good. I'm out anyway."

Beckett rolled her eyes, and watched as he excused himself to get some more. As she tried to compose herself, a sharp whistle caught her attention. Fallon pointed at her drink and raised his thick brows. He mouthed, "Another?" though she could have heard him perfectly if he had spoken aloud.

She nodded.

The detective was enjoying the loosening and warm feeling she got from the alcohol, and even admitted to herself that having Fallon turn and order another drink gave her another glimpse at his fit backside. She blushed at the thought, and covered a giddy smile with her hand.

"Okay, detective," Fallon started when he slid back into the booth and pushed her drink towards her. "Now on to you. Why'd you agree to drink with me?"

Beckett suddenly felt like the bourbon she just swallowed turned into a stone, and was finding it hard to swallow past the lump. "Technically, we're not drinking."

Fallon narrowed his eyes, and frowned. "_Technically_, we are, detective. Don't avoid the question."

She suddenly felt like no time had passed at all, and she was looking straight down the barrel at the formidable Agent Mark Fallon. Without giving him an answer, she took another sip.

"What have you heard?"

He seemed a little confused, and shook his head. "Nothing. Not since we've last spoke." He offered her another wry grin. "Sorry, detective, but the going ons of the NYPD aren't any of my concern once I'm gone. I have more pressing matters to worry about." He perked a brow. "Like the security of the nation."

"Fair enough," she replied with a half shrug. "Long story short?"

He nodded once.

She took a deep breath. "Roy Montgomery was killed. I was shot. And Castle and I are-were dating." He didn't miss her quick correction, and the sad look that crossed her face, but he said nothing.

Fallon pursed his lips and his eyes widened fractionally. He exhaled and blinked a few times. After a moment, he furrowed his brow and asked, "Montgomery is dead?"

"Yes."

"And you were shot?"

"At his funeral."

Her companion's eyes widened even more, and he pushed himself away from the table between them, his back making a cushioned _thump_ sound when it connected with the red upholstery. "At his _funeral_?"

"Yes, sir." It was easy to slip back into that mode. She was a detective, always.

He mouthed the word "Wow" to himself, his eyes trained on her face. He took a deep breath, and leaned forward again, resting his strong frame on his elbows. "That's not what you're upset about, though. Is it?"

Again, Beckett felt her brain and mouth working to give him the response that she would have given anyone else. The, "It's nothing. I'm fine," response. But she accepted his offer of a drink because she knew him well enough to feel safe, but not enough to feel as though she was too close. He was the perfect fit of the person whose ear she could bend. She knew that was why he offered in the first place. The man could see her beginning to spiral out of control, the way he apparently had. He was a damn fine agent.

"No," she said, her voice resigned but strong.

"So, Beckett." The way he said her name made her look up, and she realized that she had been trying to drill a hole through the wooden table top. "What's really bothering you?"

The sound of a group of people coming into the bar served as a brief relief from his burning gaze, but when she turned her head back to look at him, she could see there was no escaping the question. He looked at her through his long, dark lashes. "Castle." The name rolled off his lips as a statement, rather than a question. The agent tilted his head to the side, ever slightly.

"Yes," she whispered, ignoring the sting of tears in her eyes. She grabbed her glass and took a long sip. The burn felt good.

"Y'know," he lowered his voice, as if telling her a secret, "I thought you two were dating when we first met." He smiled, but more to himself than at her. "I guess my intuition wasn't too far off the mark."

Beckett felt her jaw tighten, and her hand clutch the glass a little harder. Her internal battle of emotions paused when she heard Fallon laughing. It started off as a low, rumbling chuckle then slowly turned into an outright bark. She felt her face heat up in anger and embarrassment, until she saw Fallon wave his hand as he fought to hold in his amusement.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, the merriment still lacing his gravelly voice. He held up two fingers. "You just told me your captain was killed, and that you were shot at his funeral," he ticked the two appendages as he spoke, "And the _one_ thing you're hung up on is Castle?" He glanced at her now empty glass of bourbon and puffed his cheeks out. "A woman scorned," he muttered to himself, then to her added, "You need something stronger."

Before she could protest, he was out of his seat and gently tugging on her wrist. "C'mon," he said to her bewildered look. "Trust me."And she did, so she allowed the agent to drag her out and after him. He let go of her as soon as they got outside, holding up a hand to wave down a taxi.

Beckett shivered as the cool air seeped into her thin jacket, but she zipped it up as far as it would go regardless. Shoving her hands deep into her jean pockets, she watched as Fallon took a step off the curb in his vain attempt to flag a cab. She wondered where he was taking her, and why she was so willing to follow. She trusted him, that much she knew, but it didn't mean that she knew him.

In fact, all that she knew of Mark Fallon was that he was a smart cop, driven, and had a killer instinct. And that he was on the phone with his wife when the tower she had been working in collapsed during the terrorist attacks. It seemed that her initial assessment of Fallon, that he was a "douche," was no longer the case. So, what did she know of the man?

"Hey." He stepped into her line of sight. "Cab's here."

She nodded to show she was listening, but said nothing as he held open the door for her and allowed her to climb into the taxi. The vehicle dipped slightly as he joined her, and shook when he slammed the door shut. She didn't listen to the address he rattled off to the driver, but leaned against her side of the car and looked out the window at the bustling city around them.

Fallon looked askance at the detective, and smothered the glower he felt tugging his lips down. It wasn't Beckett he was frowning at, but the situation the younger woman was in. It was horrible to be alone. He knew it first hand. He engaged his new job the second the phone cut off his wife's last scream, and married it the minute he buried her. He could see that the detective was following a similar lifestyle.

A few minutes into the drive, he looked out of his own window and asked, "So, who was it?"

Beckett turned her head marginally in his direction. "Who was what?"

Fallon faced her slowly, his serious expression softened by the concerned crease between his brows. "Who drove you into this job?"

As Beckett was saying, "What makes you think-" the older man cut her off with a sharp, "Don't kid me, Detective." She could practically hear the capital "D."

When she didn't immediately answer, he resumed looking out of his window. He watched the people hustling down the sidewalks, heads down as if they were watching how fast their feet could carry them to their destination. "My wife."

He could see her eyes widen slightly, but he knew it wasn't in surprise. "Her death was what drove me to this job. It was what made me that man you met before." There was a rough tinge to his words.

"_What I do, it's not who I am. It's just how I have to be. I hope you both understand that."_

"I thought the job was what did that," she said, her voice soft and her eyes trained on the stained glass by her face.

He nodded in agreement. "In part."

Again, they didn't speak until they rounded another block and she said, "My mom." It was so quiet that Fallon wasn't sure she had spoken.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it.

She shook her head, the brown tresses falling over her shoulders and down her chest. "It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't mean it still doesn't hurt like _hell_," he murmured.

They didn't speak again until the cab pulled up in front of a tenement building. Silently, Beckett followed Fallon as he led her up three flights of stairs. Internally, she felt revolted by the worn and nearly brown color of the once purple carpeting. Once inside, Fallon locked the door and offered to take her coat. She allowed him to, and took a few hesitant steps further into his apartment as he fumbled with the light in the closet.

Right off, she could see how small and spartan it was. There were no colors aside from a small splash from a pile of neatly stacked magazines atop a counter. It only took three more strides before she was no longer by the front door, and in the combined living and kitchen space. To her right, she could see a tight hallway that led to two doors. She assumed they were the bathroom and bedroom.

At this point, Fallon was by her elbow, studying her face as she surveyed everything.

"It's not much," he said, his own eyes following hers, "But it's home."

"Very masculine," she found herself saying, and missed his half-smile in response.

There was a sudden and loud noise from the hall to her left, making her jump and reach for her waist, where her service pistol would have been. Fallon's smile widened, and he jerked his head towards the door. "Come meet Butt Head."

At her horrified expression, he laughed and moved towards the room. "It's actually Butler, but I find Butt Head is more fitting."

He opened the door, and an all black dog bounded out. It excitedly greeted his owner with a sharp bark and whine, it's tail wagging furiously, before realizing there was another human being to be met. The dog raced to Beckett, who cautiously took a step back, before a sharp whistle brought the dog to it's haunches immediately.

"Good boy," Fallon said, as he patted the dog on top of his head.

Beckett smiled and knelt before the panting animal. "Hi, there." She laughed as his pink tongue lathered her outreached hand, and looked up at the proud owner. "He doesn't seem like much of a butt head to me," she joked.

Fallon crossed his arms across his broad chest and rolled his eyes. "You don't know him."

"He's beautiful, Mark." His first name slipped out, but neither seemed to care as she asked, "What breed is he?"

The man scratched his head, and shrugged. "I think an Australian Shepherd mix. I don't really know. I just found him one day, on Butler Avenue. Hence the name." He watched as Beckett murmured gibberish to the happy dog. "I don't mind saying that he saved my life."

She knew what he was referring to, and could almost admit that she added a little more tenderness to her caresses with that fact in mind.

With her attention on Butler, Fallon moved around them and towards his fridge. Beckett half turned to watch as he reached into the freezer and pulled something out, then listened as he rummaged in the silverware drawer. When she felt the warmth of his body when he knelt beside her, she unconsciously leaned into it. She let out a loud, giggling laugh when she saw that he was holding an ice cream carton and two spoons.

"You said something stronger," she laughed, standing up.

He grinned and joined her. "I did. Nothing like ice cream to cure a broken heart, they say."

She grabbed an offered spoon, and shook her head. "No one says that."

He shrugged and followed her to the two cushioned couch in his constricted living room. "Well, all the movies do. So, I have to be on to something here."

They settled into their seats, and Beckett called over the dog as Fallon pried the frozen lid off and set it on the end table at his side. As Butler eagerly joined them at Beckett's feet, she asked, "Do you watch movies often?"

Fallon met her eyes and dug his spoon into the ice cream. "I have a lot of time on my hands."

She took a chunk out as well, glad he was holding the container in a strong grip as her spoon slid across the still hardened surface. "What else do you do?"

"I take Butler out for long walks." At his name, the dog perked his ears and tilted his head to the side. "I read. Run." He gave her a shrug as if to say, "You know," but she had a feeling that was the bulk of his life at the moment.

It saddened her somewhat, and she suddenly felt that her so-called problems weren't really problems at all. The sharp agent swallowed the cold cream with a small wince, and frowned. "Hey, none of that now." At her curious look, he motioned at her face with his spoon. "No comparing your problems to mine, and thinking that they're not as significant."

Beckett felt her shoulders sag. She took another spoonful and ate it. "I just feel like you should be throwing me out on the streets, and telling me to get over my girly problems."

His eyes crinkled into another pained but amused smile. "Six months ago? I would have."

"Turning a new leaf?" Her voice sounded a little biting, even to her own ears.

"Something like that." Of course he wasn't fazed. He was still DHS Agent Fallon, without the rank and title before it. She didn't apologize, and he didn't care.

They ate a few more bites, laughing as Fallon flicked some at the hungry looking Butler, until he cleared his throat and held the carton a little closer to his chest and away from her reaching hand.

"What happened between you and the writer?"

She had hoped that he had forgotten, and mentally kicked herself for being that stupid. Of course he wouldn't forget. She licked her spoon clean and looked down, into the brown eyes of Butler. With a soft sigh, she leaned down and scratched him behind the ears. His thumping tail signaled that he enjoyed the ministrations. "It all boils down to two different worlds."

"Really?" She glanced over to see his partially confused expression. "That's it?"

"No, but it's enough." It wasn't that she didn't want to tell him all about her mother's murder, and the ensuing chaos that it created all these years later, but she figured now wasn't the time. He could tell there was more, but he left it alone. Which mildly surprised her. Fallon was like a dog with a bone.

Instead of replying, he offered the carton to her and stood up. "I'll be back." He left in the direction of the bathroom, and Beckett happily scooped another creamy mouthful. The sweet and cool bite was a nice change from the burning bourbon she was downing earlier.

Her eyes wandered again, and she noted even more things in the small area. There was a tall bookshelf, stuffed with novels and textbooks of varying sizes but all seemingly well read, wedged between the couch and the wall on her side. Adjacent to the wooden shelf was a locked window. The kitchen was visible from where she sat, and it irked her.

The sound of a flushing toilet alerted her that Fallon was nearly done in the bathroom, but she wanted just one more minute alone to study the lone photograph that caught her eye. She glanced towards the hall where he disappeared to, and leaned over the couch to look at the end table that was beside where Fallon had been sitting.

Aside from a small clock, and the discarded ice cream carton lid, there was a framed photograph of a much younger Fallon and a beautiful young woman who Beckett assumed to be his late wife. They seemed very much in love and happy, and Beckett felt another pang of sadness in her chest.

"Her name was Kelly."

Beckett's eyes snapped up to see Fallon watching her from the entryway. "She's beautiful."

He smiled fondly. "She was."

"What did she do for a living?" Fallon crossed the room, and resumed his seat when Beckett finally set the picture down and moved away.

"She was a teacher." There wasn't so much pain as there was heartache in his eyes as he threw in, "Music," with a loving smile.

They resumed a companionable silence once again, the sounds of the city nothing but white noise in the background. Butler had fallen fast asleep on Beckett's left foot, and she didn't have the heart to move it. Beckett realized that it was getting dark outside from the solitary window, and she cast Fallon an alarmed look. "Didn't you have to be somewhere?"

He gave her a full on, shockingly white smile. "I lied."

Beckett decided that he needed to do that a lot more often too. "I see."

Fallon leaned over, very close, and snagged the melting ice cream from her grasp.

"So much for turning a new leaf."

He laughed and leaned back, carton in hand.

"I never said I wasn't to going lie again."

Beckett watched as he resumed eating chunks of gloppy ice cream, admiring his strikingly handsome face accentuated by the scar that crisscrossed his chin and jaw. She decided that she could definitely get used to watching the man eat, or talk, or just sit there. And the fact that that very morning he was a nearly a virtual stranger meant nothing to her. Here and now, Fallon was now another name to add to her very short list of close friends.

Catching her studious look, Fallon smirked. "Something on your mind, Beckett?"

Her eyes softened, and she found herself propping her head with her hand, her elbow resting on the back of the couch. "Kate."

He swallowed, and blinked. "Mark."

"I'll tell you what's on my mind another time, Mark."

"How about tomorrow?" His hazel eyes bore into hers, and she couldn't look away. "Over dinner? No funny business. I swear." He left the spoon in the carton and lifted his free hand into the peace sign symbol. "Scout's honor."

Kate laughed and shook her head. "We'll have to work on that tomorrow, I guess."

Mark smiled and nodded. "I guess."

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

It had been several weeks since Beckett last spoke with Fallon. They had had a relatively unexciting dinner, where the two caught up over a supreme combination of Chicken Kiev and Chardonnay (Fallon had a coffee and water.) Although Beckett thoroughly enjoyed her brief escapade with the former agent, the life of a detective didn't leave much down time, and she regrettably had to get back to work.

A week into her latest case Beckett was barreling down the busy New York streets in her attempt to snag a quick lunch before something, if anything, came through from Lanie. While her mind was running in overdrive, and her feet going as fast as her brain willed them to go, she hadn't paid attention to where she was moving until she connected with something solid and warm. The soft grunt made her head snap up with an apology ready on her lips.

"Fallon?"

"Beckett," he said, by way of greeting. He brushed a hand over the trousers of his immaculate suit, and looked up. "Do you make it a habit to run into people?"

"No," she replied, a little dumbly.

Fallon grinned, and she realized how gullible she just sounded. Rolling her eyes, she took a careful step to the left and he followed.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry, detective?"

"Kate," she corrected, and idly motioned down the street. "Lunch, actually." She took in his professional attire, and asked, "You?"

"Work, actually." She gave him a bemused look. "I was hired for a security detail."

"Good for you," she praised, giving him fond and sincere smile. She knew how rough the last few months had been for him, and was happy to see he was getting back to something he was not only familiar with, but assuredly very good at too.

"Thank you."

They stood for a moment, in the middle of all walks of life trying to squeeze around them, before Fallon casually looked at his watch and Beckett bit her bottom lip.

"I have to get-"

"Join me for-"

They both ruefully grinned, and Fallon shook his head. "Thanks, but I can't."

"It's okay," Beckett appeased. Her phone went off before she could say more, and after reading the text message, her shoulders sagged and she added, "I can't either."

He puckered his lips, and gave her a look that showed he fully understood how she felt.

She waved the cell in the air, and gave a humorless laugh. "Duty calls."

This time Fallon didn't try to hide the fact that he was checking his watch. "So it does." He held out his hand for a shake, which she took. "It was good seeing you, Kate."

"You too, Fallon."

"Mark," he stated, his tone firm but his hazel eyes warm. "Take care."

"You too," she started to say, but he was already walking away with the stereotypical New Yorker brisk. Another buzz from her cell made her roll her eyes and snap, "Alright! I'm coming."

* * *

Without either realizing it, Fallon and Beckett had fallen into a semi-routine in which they both ran into each other nearly everyday. She was usually trying to clear her head or grab a bite to eat in the middle of her heavy workload, while he was wrapping up the last few days of his impromptu security detail for a prominent lawyer.

Aside from the brief "Hellos" and "How are yous?" they never had time to speak. It was after the seventh or eighth run in, where Fallon noticed the dark circles under her eyes and Beckett spotted the blatant red and purple bruise on his left temple, when they finally paused long enough to actually talk to one another.

"What do you say we run into each other again. Say, tomorrow at noon?" He asked in that gravelly voice she had grown accustomed to hearing. His face was slightly scrunched in pain. Someone walking past accidentally bumped him, causing him to take a jerky step forward and step into a shaft of sunlight that the canopy overhead failed to shade them from. He raised a hand to his eyes, and winced.

"Mark, are you okay?" She placed a hand on his shoulder, and felt him stiffen under touch. He gave her a curt nod. Placated, if only for the time being, she removed her hand. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

He gave her a tight smile, and then walked away with nothing more than a raised hand above his right shoulder in farewell. Beckett frowned and watched him until he rounded a corner, and disappeared from view. She figured she could get answers from him tomorrow, anyway.

Despite the sun out and shining down, the deep chill of late fall settled into Beckett's bones and she shivered. She pulled her hands into the sleeves of her jacket, and then took off in the opposite direction of Fallon, her head down and her arms folded across her chest.

She managed to walk a few more blocks before running into someone else. She almost said Fallon's name until she looked up and realized who it really was she ran into this time.

"Castle," she hesitantly greeted.

A myriad of emotions flickered across the writer's face, but he settled on his usual disarming smile and greeted her in kind. "How are you?"

She caught herself almost saying she wasn't doing well, but realized it was because she didn't like the state she had left Fallon in. With that in mind, she gave him a ghost of a smile and answered, "I'm doing okay, thanks. Yourself?"

"I'm doing well, thank you." His brow creased in concern. "Are you sure you're okay? You look exhausted."

Beckett wanted to snap that it wasn't any of his business, but it wasn't his fault. They may have not been together anymore, but it didn't mean that he didn't still care deeply for her and vice versa. Especially in his case. She was, after all, the one who broke things off.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm fine, Castle. It's just work, you know."

He looked suddenly sad, but the smile remained on his face. "I remember."

"Right..." She trailed off, and looked away. Anything to keep from looking into his earnest face and hurt eyes.

Not one to let silence linger, Castle quickly jumped on a new track with an enthusiastic remark about his latest novel. When Beckett failed to latch on with nothing more than another caustic smile, he too trailed off and rubbed the back of his head. "I'm going to have lunch with Alexis."

"Oh. Is she home from school?"

His eyes brightened. "Just for a few days." He cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. "Would you like to join us?"

She was already looking for his falling face when she said, "I'm sorry, Castle, but I can't."

"It's okay," he said, a little too quickly. "I completely understand." He gave her a smile that was a little too bright to be genuine, and made a show of pulling out his phone. "Speak of the devil," he forced out a laugh, and answered the call. "Hey, pumpkin. I'm on my way. Yes, I made sure to bring- Yes. I'm an adult. That was one time!"

Beckett grinned despite herself. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner and glumly told his daughter goodbye. "Teenagers," he muttered.

She laughed, and he grinned. "I guess I'll see you around, then?" It was more of a question than a statement.

"Maybe," she said, injecting as much honesty in her voice as she could. She didn't like to hurt him, but it seemed it was all she did. He accepted that with a nod.

"Okay," he quipped.

"Yeah."

"See you."

She waved as he brushed past her, and willed herself to keep walking and not look back. He would be doing the same thing, she knew, but his willpower was weaker than hers.

* * *

Early the next morning, Fallon sluggishly sat up in bed and pressed his back against the cool wall behind him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he threw out both hands, clutched the charcoal gray comforter in a tight grip, and willed the bout of nausea to go away. After a moment, where he wasn't sure if the bile at the back of his throat would come up or stay down, Fallon slowly loosened his hold and repeatedly clenched and unclenched his aching hands.

Carefully, Fallon pushed himself to the edge of the mattress, until his bare feet touched the worn carpet. He stretched his legs out in front of him, noting (not for the first time,) that he needed to get a box spring foundation like a normal human being.

Fallon twisted from side to side, trying to work out the kinks in his back, before a massive yawn took over. He winced when the movement pulled at the fresh cut on his left arm. He gingerly reached over and rolled the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing the semi-deep laceration directly beneath his healed gunshot wound. A sliver of blood wound its way down his bicep, and Fallon growled underneath his breath.

With a little struggle, he managed to get to his feet and cast an eye over his still sleeping dog, who lie at the end of the bed. Shuffling to the door, he yanked it open and entered the bathroom, cradling his left arm close to his chest. Once there, he proceeded to rifle through his medicine cabinet until he came upon the homemade medical kit he sought. Eventually, Fallon managed to clean up and bandage the cut with little mess.

Once everything was put back into its proper place, Fallon stood in his enclosing bathroom and scratched the back of his head. He had gotten into the habit of "shit, shower, and shave" before heading out to work, but now the case was wrapped up and he was a little worse for wear. He stood a minute longer, before setting his shoulders and leaning over the sink. He gripped the edges of the white porcelain basin, and hung his head, fighting the urge to be sick.

When he brought his head back up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and fought the urge to flinch at his reflection. The man looking back at him was a pale, washed-out version of the man Beckett and Castle had known years ago. Dark circles were smudged underneath his eyes, and the variegated mixture of purple, red, and blue at his temple stood out against his stark skin.

Fallon snarled, and resisted the urge to slam his fist into the glass. He realized how much it cost to replace it after the third time, when he was out of a job and spending the majority of his remaining cash on copious amounts of alcohol. The snarl slowly slipped from his face when his mind drifted to what his deceased wife would think of him now. Fallon slammed his right hand against the glass, shaking the cabinet above it and causing Butler to whine from the next room.

Turning to address the dog, Fallon felt overcome by the sudden urge to vomit, and he lurched towards the toilet. He emptied what little remained in his stomach from the previous night, and fell to the side, his back resting against the shower stall. With a grunt of exertion, he reached up to flush the mess down, and grimaced at the putrid smell.

He closed his eyes, but reopened them when he felt a presence in the tight space. His eyes settled on Butler, his tail tucked between his legs and his lean body shaking. Gaze softening, Fallon reached out with one hand, waiting for the dog to shove his nose into the stinging palm.

"Good boy," he mumbled, trailing his hand from the dog's wet nose to behind his soft ears for a scratch. Despite the pain and sickness, the latter which he attributed to his concussion, the dog never failed to make him smile.

After a moment, where he tried to clear his swimming and aching head, Fallon finally managed to push himself up from off the bathroom floor. He stumbled forward, one hand clutching the sink for some leverage while the other balled into a fist against his forehead. He pushed off again, making it to the bedroom on unsteady legs.

Fallon carefully bent over to make his so-called bed. He scooped up his cell, lest it got wrapped up in the comforters and he forgot it where it went, and placed it on the floor. When he finished, he grabbed his phone and took note of the time, recalling that he told Beckett he would meet her for lunch that afternoon.

Taking a deep and steadying breath, Fallon strode to his closet and rifled through the hangers until he came upon a dark gray suit. He also grabbed a crisp white, button-down shirt. He then reached above the clothing, where a shelf was fixed, and selected a solid red tie. Clothes in hand, he shuffled to the bed and attentively laid them out.

There were no other pieces of furniture in the bedroom, aside from the mattress. All articles of clothing were placed neatly in the closet, with accessories on the shelf and shoes on the floor. Fallon vaguely recalled half of the pieces he used to own were broken by his own hands, while the other half were sold for money. He never bothered to replace them. Any personal effects he had owned were locked in a storage facility; painful memories of another time and place. Another life.

Fallon unhurriedly dressed for the day, easily shucking the sweatpants and delicately peeling the shirt off of his back. Eventually he was fully dressed in the suit, and he had to admit that wearing that particular clothing made him feel a little better.

He shrugged into a black pea coat, and was tugging on the sleeve when the vibration of his phone against his hip startled him. He answered with a sharp, "Fallon."

"Mark?" Beckett's voice seemed ten times louder than usual to the hypersensitive man.

"Yeah?" He found himself croaking, pulling the phone away from his ear with a wince.

"I was expecting to 'run into you,' and you're not here," she said, following it with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'm on my way now," he replied in his measured cadence.

"I'll see you soon. Bye."

Fallon ended the call.

He hated goodbyes.

* * *

Beckett stood underneath the canopy she had stood under the day before, shoulders hunched against the biting wind as she waited. When another violent shiver racked her thin frame, she considered pulling out her cell and calling Fallon again, if only to ask how long it would take for him to get there.

After a few more minutes of withstanding the harsh cold, and seriously considering just walking away, a taxi pulled up in front of Beckett and Fallon slowly climbed out. She frowned when she saw the cab, her lips turning down even further when she saw Fallon's pallor. She stepped forward and touched his arm, dipping her head to look up into his face.

"Mark? Are you okay?"

He lifted his head as if every movement sent a searing pain into his skull, and Beckett wondered if that really was the case. She knew the signs and symptoms of a concussion very well, and patted Fallon's arm in sympathy. The man was probably feeling absolutely horrible.

"You didn't have to come out here if you weren't feeling well," she scolded, looping her arm through his and pulling him away from the road and towards the buildings.

"I'm fine," he grumbled, his eyes still downcast.

"Bull," she laughed, lifting her hand up to wave down a cab.

When he realized what she was doing, he gingerly extracted his arm from hers and grabbed her raised hand. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine." He waved a hand down the street, where there was a diner on the corner a few blocks down. "Let's eat."

"Mark, are you sure?" Beckett tried to meet his eyes, but he still wouldn't look up. She was completely serious now. "A concussion isn't something you mess around with. You need to get some rest."

Finally, he lifted his eyes from the sidewalk and looked directly into her face. He gave her a haggard smile. "I also need to replenish all the food I emptied my stomach of this morning."

Beckett grimaced. "Thanks for the image."

He shrugged, and made to move down the street. After a few feet, he noticed that she hadn't followed, and was standing with her arms across her chest with an eyebrow arched high.

"Are you coming or what?"

Rolling her eyes, she scowled and fell into step with him. If he was determined to go through with lunch, she'd be damned if she didn't stick by him and make sure he didn't face plant into his meal.

As they walked, slowly but surely, the wind began to pick up again. Despite her effort to show the former agent she was as tough as he was, the unexpected gust caused another strong shiver to tear through her body. Fallon cast her a concerned side look. He knew how cold he was, so he couldn't imagine how she felt. He slowed to a stop and nimbly removed his outer coat, his left arm protesting at every motion. When he finally removed it, he held it out without a word.

Beckett opened her mouth to protest, but the perked brow and set jaw brooked no argument. Just as she moved to grab it from him, he took hold of it with both hands and held it open for her. Getting the hint, she turned and allowed Fallon to drape the coat over her shoulders. The heat from his body immediately soaked into her back, and she subconsciously sagged into the warm material with a minute sigh of relief.

Fallon kept his left arm glued to his side, and continued on. Beckett once again fell into step with him. Occasionally she noticed a small scrunch of his nose or narrowing of his eyes, and wondered if she should just stop him and send him back home to rest. She was feeling pretty worn out and tired herself, but decided the day before that she couldn't pass on lunch and miss the details of his latest job (and the origins of his apparent injuries.)

When they reached the diner, Fallon held open the door for her and allowed her to walk in. She felt like she was being treated by a proper gentleman, and failed to stifle the grin on her face. They were greeted by a young man, who lackadaisically showed them to their booth and handed them two worn menus before departed with an eye-roll.

"Nice young man," grunted Fallon sarcastically as he undid a button on his suit jacket.

Beckett smirked in response as she carefully shucked his offered jacket, and folded it neatly by her side. Before either could pick up their menus to browse, an older woman sidled next to Fallon and plastered a smile. "Evenin'. How are you? Can I start you off with drinks?"

Fallon scowled and stuck his nose in the menu, and didn't glance up from his menu perusing when Beckett asked for a coffee and water for the both of them.

"Would you like cream? Sugar?"

Fallon peeked over the top of the menu at Beckett, and then slowly turned his head towards the elder woman. He couldn't tell if that was an offer or an address, so he just said, "Yes."

Beckett's smile widened, and she bit her lip. Fallon hid behind his menu once again.

"I'll be right back with your drinks. You take your time."

"Thank you," Beckett replied, more kindly than her counterpart.

When the woman, Helen from what Beckett gleaned of her name tag, left, Beckett leaned forward and used her index finger to pull Fallon's menu down. "What's with you?"

"My head hurts," he answered. He placed his right elbow on the tabletop and cradled his head, eyes squinting against the bright sunlight from outside.

"I told you, we should go home." At his look, she hastily backtracked. "I mean your home. We should go to your place." She felt her cheeks flush. "To rest." She hung her head, and let out an audible groan of embarrassment.

Fallon's plump lips curled into an entertained smile, and he held out his right hand to stop her rambling. "I got it."

"Good," she sighed.

Helen reappeared to dump their drinks off, and tossed their straws on the tabletop. "Know what you'd like to order yet?"

Fallon seemed to sink even further in his seat, and Beckett shook her head. "Just a few more minutes, please."

"Absolutely. Take your time." She cast them a sickly sweet smile and swooped away.

Beckett once again leaned forward, elbows firmly planted on the table. She looked through the menu, and finally settled on a burger with fries. As she took care of her coffee, her eyes periodically flicked to the man in front of her. He finally put the menu down, and took several, deep gulps of water. When it was half empty, he pushed the menu to the side and made to move as if he was going to add his left arm to the table, but a sudden look of pain struck his face.

"What? What's wrong?" Beckett's eyes widened, and her eyes scanned his body for any visible injuries.

"Nothing," he ground out, trying to catch his breath. "I hurt my arm. It's nothing."

After a few seconds passed, the slightly panicked look left his face, but a sheen of pain brightened his eyes. Beckett took a sip of her piping hot cup of caffeine. Cradling the mug in her hands, relishing the warm, she looked over to Fallon.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"

He raised his brows in question.

"Don't play dumb, Fallon," Beckett said sternly. "Obviously, you're hurt. What happened?"

He gave her a half-shouldered shrug, and answered in his rough voice, "Someone tried to take my guy out. I took him down instead."

"Did you shoot him?" She wondered, her eyes trained on the dark bruise on his head. She remembered his temper, and that was when he wasn't physically assaulted.

"I don't carry."

"Oh." She knew the agency would take back their government issued weapon, of course, but she had at least figured Fallon would have a personal one.

"How'd you take him down?" She knew that he was obviously skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but hadn't meant for the question to sound like she was completely clueless.

Apparently he read it like she was, because Fallon rolled his eyes, and gave her a pointed stare. "You're a _detective_, Beckett. Figure it out."

"I _know_ that you obviously engaged in hand-to-hand," she replied with an eye roll of her own. "I was just curious about what happened."

Fallon shifted and grinned, the scar on his chin standing out against his pale skin. "What, Beckett? You want the blow-by-blow? I'm not an ESPN channel." Beckett scowled, and Fallon shrugged. "Nothing spectacular. The assailant came after my guy, we engaged, I took him out."

"Wait. The guy was seriously stupid enough to try to take down a protected man with his bare hands?"

"Well," Fallon hedged, and was saved from any further questions by Helen.

"You folks ready to order?"

"I'll have the soup of the day," Fallon ordered curtly, then handed her his menu.

Beckett, a little off guard, grabbed her own menu and leafed through the laminated pages until she came upon the one she wanted. "Burger and fries, please."

"How'd you like your burger?"

"Medium."

Helen chuckled. "You don't want them mooing, but you don't want it turning to ash in your mouth."

"Exactly," Beckett said, playing along as she handed the woman her menu.

"Alrighty! I'll put those orders in for you."

Beckett nodded in affirmation, then turned towards Fallon. His face had gone ashen, and she could see the slight bob of his Adam's apple. She pushed herself to the side, out of the booth, and to his side. He raised his left hand to stop her, squeezing his eyes shut with the movement. After a minute, he took an unsteady breath and motioned for her to sit back down.

"Are you sure? I think we should go."

"Sit."

She did, but with a look of annoyance and concern on her face.

"I'll sit here, and I'll eat lunch with you," she started, her voice low, "But the second I see you're about to puke or pass out, we're out of here. Understand?"

Seeing as she was concerned for his well-being, Fallon couldn't find himself to be cross at her demanding tone. Hell, he used that authoritative tone with her all the time. He nodded, slowly.

Fallon took another sip of water, then carefully lifted his hurt arm and placed it on the table. He intertwined his hands together with nothing more than a little scowl. As if the pain was more of a nuisance. "Are you ever going to tell me about what happened between you and Castle?"

Beckett, mid sip of her own water, inhaled sharply and began coughing.

"That bad, huh?"

"No," she cleared her throat, and shook her head. "That's a story for another time." She looked at her fingers, as if they were suddenly interesting. "When you feel better."

Fallon chuckled, winced, then coughed. "I give. Let's go."

Beckett perked. "Really? You're giving in?"

He held up his left arm, and showed the red stain that was seeping through the white fabric. "Yes. Uncle. Can we go home now?"

Beckett let his last question go without comment as she threw down some money for their drinks, and hurriedly told their waitress that there was an emergency they needed to tend to. Cop's life, and all that. She snagged his coat, and led him outside.

Every move made his head spin, but Fallon was determined to make it home before he allowed his body to regurgitate his water or pass out.

"I think we should go to the hospital," Beckett suggested as she helped him into his seat.

"No. I'll be fine."

She glared at his ashen face, then nodded. "But I'm staying until I'm convinced you're okay."

Fallon rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile playing at his lips.

"No funny business?" Beckett asked.

"Scout's honor."

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

"Here, let me help you with that." Beckett gently pulled his arms out his suit jacket, being careful to mind his left one. They were standing in his living room, Butler watching them with curious eyes from the couch. "Where would you like me to put it?"

"Anywhere," he replied, pushing the dog off the sofa with a nudge. He settled in his usual spot, and propped his right elbow on the arm as his left rested in his lap. "Thanks," he grunted; almost as an afterthought. All he wanted to do was close his eyes, and sleep.

Beckett hung the suit jacket in the closet by the front door, hoping that she'd remember where it was when he needed it later. Turning back to her friend, she chewed on her lower lip and approached him slowly. Butler had apparently resumed his position on the couch, his head resting in Fallon's lap as his owner's hand gently stroked his head.

When it came to concussions, there wasn't much to be done aside from plenty of rest. She knew he needed to be monitored for the first 24 hours, and that those hours had already passed. So, she figured she could at least take a look at his bleeding arm.

"Hey," she leaned over the semi-conscious man and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Without a word Fallon's right arm shot out and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back hard. "Jesus, Fallon!"

His eyes flew open, and he released his tight grip. "Christ. I'm sorry."

"No," she quickly assured him, but her voice was shaky. "It was my fault."

He didn't say anything, but she could see the shame on his face when he tried to look away.

"It's okay," she said. She offered him a smile. "Really."

With deliberate movements, Beckett reached forward and rested a hand on his chest. She could tell when he stopped breathing, inhaling hard and refusing to let it out as he looked down at the weight and back at her in confusion.

"I can't help you if I can't get to the wound," she stated.

"I can do it," he protested, voice deepening.

Beckett leaned back and waved at his shirt. "Then unbutton. I assume you have bandages or something in the bathroom?"

He gave her a distracted nod in response, as he sat forward and begin to remove his now stained shirt. Beckett returned with the supplies, and coaxed the dog away so that she could take his place. Once his ruined button-down was removed and tossed to the side, Beckett tentatively took hold of his offered arm and rolled the wet sleeve of his white tee up.

"That's pretty deep," she thought aloud, her fingers gently prodding the tender flesh around the gash. "I think you need stitches."

He craned his head to look at his arm, his eyes skirting to her face. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"You're just saying that so I don't haul you off to the hospital," she laughed.

Fallon shrugged, then winced when she started dabbing at it. "The bleeding slowed some, but still..." She trailed off, and continued to clean him up. "There. Done."

He lowered his arm, feeling the tight pull of the bandage. "Thanks."

Beckett gathered up the supplies she confiscated, and returned what was left to the bathroom. "Do you want me to get you a clean shirt?"

Fallon shook his head. "I can handle it, Beckett."

"_Kate_," she stressed, feeling the need to remove the professional tones. She was on her feet and moving towards the little hallway that led to his bedroom and bathroom.

"Kate," he called out, his low voice a weary warning.

"It's okay," she said. She opened the door and suddenly felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the entire building. The room was bare, aside from a mattress that took up nearly all the space, and a door that presumably led to a closet. There was nothing else in the room. The combination of muted color and lack of furniture, lack of _anything_, sent a crushing feeling of oppression in her chest and she reeled away from the room.

"Kate," Fallon was on his feet now, albeit a little unsteadily. "I told you that I had it handled."

"Do you really?" Her voice was tight. "Do you really have things 'handled?'"

Confused, Fallon gave her a deep frown. "I don't understand."

"No," she argued. "_I_ don't."

Fallon gave her a hard look.

"There's nothing _to _understand," he ground out. "I don't have a dresser or a colorful rug. So what? What's the problem?"

Beckett returned his look with one of her own.

"That's not the point," she snapped. "I thought I was your friend. I thought you knew that you could tell me anything."

"What is there to tell?!"

There was a deafening silence following that.

He hadn't just asked her.

He yelled at her.

"I should go," Beckett muttered.

"Oh, for fu- Kate."

She was already standing by the front door, a hand on the doorknob. She paused, and waited for him to continue. Butler was at her side, whimpering at their raised voices.

"I don't understand," he repeated, his voice ragged and rough. Desperate.

Beckett released her hold, and turned. "Why do you live like this? Why do you do this to yourself? You deserve so much more, and yet here you are, still blaming yourself. Years later."

Fallon shut his eyes; squeezed them so hard that his dulling headache returned tenfold. "We're not even talking about my lack of interior design skills, are we?"

"No," she admitted, taking a few steps further towards him.

"I need a drink," he grumbled, but offered a smile that suggested that while he really felt like one, he was joking. He sat down, and gave a pointed look to the cushion next to him.

Taking the hint, she sat back down and stared at her hands. "I just worry about you. Is that so bad?"

Fallon shook his head. "No, it's sweet." He looked away. "But you sure have a weird way of showing it."

She rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

"Listen," he said, "I know how I can act sometimes, Kate." She didn't turn her head to look at him, but could see that his own eyes were trained on his lap. "I've done a lot of things. I do," he corrected, "A lot of things that I regret. But I'm trying—I'm trying really hard."

Beckett sighed. "I'm sorry."  
Fallon seized her wrist and forced her to meet his eyes. "Don't be sorry for caring."

There was more she wanted to say, more that she wanted to discuss with him, but she could see how exhausted he was. She slowly retracted her arm from his grip, and smiled wearily. "I'm beat, and you need to get some rest."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're not running, are you?"

She shook her head vehemently. "Not at all. It's been a long day, and you really do need to lie down." She reached up and gingerly brushed her fingers across his temple. "You took quite a hit."

Fallon leaned into the touch without realizing, his eyes closing at the contact. The sudden removal startled him back to the present, and he glanced over to see Beckett giving him an odd look.

He sighed, and rubbed a fist against his mouth and then against his head. "I'm going to shower and change. You're welcome to stay the night, if only to keep an eye on the shenanigans I may get up to in my current state." He said that with a deadly seriousness that caused Beckett to smile in spite of it.

"As much as I would love nothing more," she joked, "Some of us still have a day job."

When the words left her mouth, she mentally slapped herself and cast a guilty look at Fallon. He didn't seem to be paying attention to what she was saying, and she was glad. He removed his suit jacket from the front closet and gathered his soiled button-down from the floor, then stood in front of her with an almost awkward grace.

"Thank you."

Beckett smiled softly. "You're welcome."

* * *

Although Beckett had called to make sure that Fallon had survived through the night, it wasn't for another whole week before she physically got to see him again. She was perusing a little known bookstore near her apartment, cherishing the late night evening away from her most recent gruesome case, when a familiar dulcet tone drew her away from the novel she held.

Closing the thick book and carefully placing it in the exact spot she found it, she took a few steps away from the aisle she was in and peeked around the tall shelves towards the front desk. There stood Fallon, his powerfully built frame resting on the narrow kiosk as he patiently awaited for the librarian's response. When the elder woman shook her head, he gave her his patented white-toothed smile and quietly thanked her.

Beckett curiously watched as instead of leaving, Fallon wandered towards the back of the store. She found herself following, unsure about why. She found him a few aisles back, in the classic literature section, crouching before one of the looming shelves with a fist to his lips and his brow furrowed. She cleared her throat and smiled when he looked up in surprise.

"Kate? Hi." He stood and held out his hand for a shake. "What are you doing here?"

She laughed and motioned towards the books. "Looking for something good to read. Any suggestions?"

Although the store was small, and dimly lit, the shadows didn't completely cast his face in darkness and when he turned his head to the side she could almost see the yellow coloring of his healing bruise. His unrestricted movements also suggested that his left arm was feeling significantly better than the week prior.

He chuckled and scratched the back of his head. "I was going to ask the same of you."

"Sorry, I can't help you there. I don't often get the time to read."

"That's all I seem to have," he replied, but his tone was light. He took a step back and motioned towards the lower shelf he was staring at earlier. "I was thinking about some classic lit., you know? Maybe boost my English vocabulary a little."

She made a noncommittal sound as she too took a step forward. "That sounds like a good idea. God knows my sense of American English has gone to Hell in a hand basket with the people I've come across."

Fallon shared her sentiments with a knowing grin. As he crouched again, he glanced up and said, "I took you for more of a mystery/thriller type."

Beckett bemusedly smiled. "Why's that?"

Fallon shrugged, and started to poke through the dusty novels in front of him. "I don't know. Between the job, and what I read in your file, you just struck me as the type. Plus, you dated a mystery writer."

For some reason, Beckett latched on the fact that he read her file and not the last statement that she knew he was trying to bait her with. "You had me vetted?" Beckett demanded.

Fallon tilted his head up to give her an incredulous look. "The case involved radioactive weapons and terrorists cells. You think I _didn't_?"

Rather than responding, Beckett crossed her arms and gave an almost haughty exhale. Fallon failed to hide his smirk at her response, and turned back to his browsing. "You can't tell me you guys didn't check me out too." He pulled out a thick book and cradled it in his hands. As he skimmed through the yellowed pages, he added, "I know you knew about my wife before I told you."

"How?" She found herself asking, less accusatory and more curious.

Fallon closed the book with an audible _snap_ and placed it where he pulled it from. "Call it 'killer instinct.'" Without looking up he widened his smile, a glistening white gleam underneath the solitary bulb hanging above them.

Beckett narrowed her eyes, and felt her arms tighten around her chest instinctively. "Do I even want to know how you know about that too?"

He yanked another book out. "Nope."

"I thought so," she sighed.

The elderly woman from the front desk ambled behind the detective, clearing her throat as politely as she could. "I'm sorry, but we're closing."

Fallon stood up swiftly, and shook his head. "It's alright. Thank you for all your help." He waited for Beckett to walk ahead of him, and as the trio reached the front door of the empty store, he added, "Have a good night."

The woman smiled fondly, and repeated the same in kind. Now the two stood outside in the dark, both with their hands shoved deep in their pockets, with their shoulders hunched and their heads downcast against the chilly breeze. Beckett sniffled as her nose began to run, and Fallon's watery eyes scanned the sidewalk with a piercing intensity.

"Well," Beckett offered, "It's good to see you're doing a lot better."

Fallon gave her a curt nod. "Much. Thanks." He pulled one hand out of his warm pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. "Care to grab a cup of Joe?"

Beckett smiled, and offered a nonchalant shrug. "Sure. It's not like I'd be sleeping anyway."

He placed his free hand on his stomach, palm down, and drummed his fingers. "Lead the way, detective. This _is_ your neck of the woods."

She began walking, and he easily fell in step, as she said, "That is true. What _are_ you doing so far away from home anyway?"

"I don't really know," he admitted. He placed his hand back into the pocket of his jeans, and casually strolled next to her. "I just went out to get some air, and just kept walking." His eyes were trained ahead of them, constantly roaming about their surroundings as they moved.

She blinked in surprise. "That's quite a walk, Fallon."

He jerked his head, as if indicating their surroundings. "A lot of air," he agreed with a smile.

"In this city? I'm not too sure if that's a good thing," she laughed.

"Tell me about it," he grunted, kicking an empty Styrofoam cup out of his way.

Minutes ticked slowly by as they continued to walk. The concrete sidewalk before them darkened as a light drizzle began, coating the two in a sheen of icy water. Cars whizzed by on the road, their bright lights a stark contrast to the nearly black sky. The late hour of the night meant that the streets weren't nearly as crowded, but the young nightlife began to drag themselves from their homes and pour out into the city in scantily dressed flocks.

A group of giggly women, all hooked together arm-in-arm, slowed to admire Fallon. One, apparently ahead of the other girls in the drink department, drunkenly shouted at Fallon to call her. He scrunched his face in response, as if confused by the catcalls that followed them. Beckett bit her bottom lip to stifle the amused laughter bubbling in her chest.

"That was weird," Fallon mumbled. He hunched his shoulders further.

"What?" Beckett scoffed.

"That. Those girls." He cast a thoughtful look over his shoulder.

Beckett shrugged. "They appreciate a good-looking man. What woman doesn't?"

Fallon raised an immaculate brow. "They had to have been at _least_ twenty years younger than me. Twenty-five if they're actually of drinking age."

She rolled her eyes playfully. Here she was offering the man a compliment, and he had to go and be all Agent Fallon by wondering if the cat-calling females were truly able to drink alcohol legally or not. Just as she was beginning to doubt if Fallon was as sharp as she thought he was, he nudged her side with his elbow and grinned. "Thanks."

She didn't ask for what, and returned his easy smile.

They walked a little further before Fallon purposely cleared his throat, and grumbled, "Jesus, Beckett. Where's this place at, Narnia?"

"Whatever," she laughed, returning his nudge. She pulled one slender hand out and pointed across the street. "It's right down there."

After a few more yards, she started to angle herself towards the road. Fallon's arm suddenly darted out and wrapped around her midriff just as she stepped off the walk, pulling her back from an oncoming car. The driver angrily leaned on the horn as they flew by. Fallon immediately released her and shook his head. "Just because you grow up somewhere, Beckett, doesn't mean you let common sense leave you."

"I saw him," she defensively replied, although she hadn't really.

"Yeah," he stated. "Right."

Looking left and right, then back again, Fallon pushed himself off the curb and crossed the street. Beckett had no choice but to jog to catch up. Her playful smile started to fade when she caught up with him. He seemed annoyed or angry, so she frowned and asked, "Are you mad at me?"

He slowed his pace, and gave her a sidelong look. "No," he sighed.

"Then what is it?"

Fallon stopped, and Beckett had to catch herself from stumbling ahead. He was already speaking before she could fully stop and turn to face him. "You really don't get it, do you?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. "You're not the only one that cares, Beckett." He scowled, but it seemed as if it was more internalized than aimed at her. "I've lost a lot of people, good people, in my life. I'm not going to lose my only friend to some idiot racing down the street. Okay?"

"Oh." She blinked. "Okay."

He gave her a single, brusque nod. "Good," he affirmed. He stepped around her and paused. "Are you coming?"

She followed him the last few steps toward the coffee shop with a dumbstruck look fixed on her face. He held open the door, and patiently waited as she entered before him. His stern features softened when he saw her expression, so he offered her a warm smile that she hesitantly returned.

They stood in line behind a young couple, relishing the warmth of the shop as it seeped into their bones. When it came to their turn, Beckett rubbed her fingers against her damp jeans and looked at Fallon. He looked helpless, and Beckett's smile returned full force. "I'm just a simple, black coffee kind-of-guy," he explained.

"I am too," she commented, and added, "But every now and again, I like to indulge myself." Turning towards the eager woman behind the counter, Beckett tapped a finger against her chin and said, "Can I get a Cinnamon Dulce Frappuccino?"

When it came to Fallon's turn, he leveled his gaze on the poor woman and practically demanded, "Coffee. Black."

He paid for the both of them, and they moved to the side to await their drink orders. A steaming, ceramic mug appeared on the counter top not long after. Fallon gently hooked his finger around the handle, and held the mug in his hand but didn't sip from it.

"Mine is going to be longer than ten seconds," Beckett joked, to which Fallon replied with a narrowing of his eyes and a flare of his nostrils. He stepped around her, towards where the assortment of sugars, straws, and other items were. After a minute or so of deep thought, he plucked one sugar packet out of the cache and snagged a thin, black straw. With his two items between his fingers, he motioned towards the back of the shop and Beckett nodded in understanding.

Finally, with her drink in hand, she made her way to where Fallon was sitting. He was facing the door, but his head was bent down. His eyes were trained on the coffee he cradled in his left hand, the right idly stirring the straw. When she sat down, he looked up and smiled.

"I added sugar."

"So?"

"I can't taste it."

"Well," she chuckled, "It was only one packet."

"Yeah, well..." He trailed off and went back to stirring the straw.

She sipped her drink, shivering in spite of herself. Fallon looked from underneath his long, thick lashes at her. "It's freezing outside," he said, "Why would you order that?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I just craved one." She took in another long sip, feeling the icy liquid make its way down her throat and pool in her stomach. With an almost violent lurch, she once again shook from the cold, before pushing her drink away with a grimace.

"You okay?" Fallon was looking at her dead-on now, his face stony and serious.

"Yeah," she said, but she shook her head and corrected herself. "No."

The crease in between his brow deepened, and Beckett could swear that where he had looked like he hadn't aged a day before he now looked ten years older. If she really took the time to study him, she would allow herself to admit that he did indeed have a soft silvery hue tapering at his temples and a few creases around his eyes. But he had asked her a question, without really speaking, and she knew she owed him some answers of her own.

With a heavy sigh, Beckett wrapped her arms around her body and stared off to the side. "Sometimes I feel like the ice is–" Her mouth worked to find the right words, but they wouldn't come forth. Frustrated, Beckett exhaled sharply. "I flashback," she admitted with a tinge of annoyance. She hated sounded weak, especially to a man like Fallon. "To the freezer."

His expression didn't change, but she could see the tightening of his jaw and his posture stiffening. He knew what she was referring to. He knew what she meant. He probably felt guilty for that too, even when they both knew it had nothing to do with him.

Suddenly feeling more than a little vulnerable, and a bit foolish, Beckett cleared her throat. "It's nothing," she said, reaching for her drink. Before she could grab it, warm fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist and held fast. Confused, Beckett looked up.

"It's not nothing," Fallon said so low that it came out closer to a growl. He released his firm grip and pushed his coffee mug towards her. There was no question as to what he meant by that gesture, and Beckett couldn't tell if she appreciated the thought or was more affronted by it. After leveling his stern gaze in way where she couldn't avoid meeting his eyes, he softened his expression and added, "I'm sorry."

Beckett couldn't tell if he was sorry for what had happened all those years ago or for the way he grabbed her arm just now, but she knew that whatever reason he had, he sincerely meant it. Rather than reply, she hesitantly reached forward and pulled his coffee mug closer. She relished the dissipating warmth; wrapping both of her hands around the ceramic with a small smile.

She hadn't realized that while she did this, Fallon had grabbed her abandoned beverage and tried a sip. The resulting sound of utter disgust was what ultimately ripped her from her dream-like state of warmth and happiness. Her eyes snapped to Fallon's face; his expression a mixture of repulsion and bewilderment. He was holding the plastic cup at arm's length.

"How in the _hell_ can you drink this stuff?" He demanded and while she knew he was completely serious, he was also trying to lighten up the suddenly dark mood.

Beckett opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut when her phone vibrated in her pocket. With a grimace, she pulled it out and answered. "Beckett."

"Yo, it's Esposito."

She rolled her eyes. "I know, Espo. I do have Caller ID."

"Oh, right." She could hear him clearing his throat. "We finally got a break on that Doogie Howser case."

This time she couldn't help but audibly sigh. "Would you please stop calling him that? His name was David Rybak."

There was an apparent whine to Esposito's voice when he replied, "C'mon, Beckett, the man is practically his twin!"

"Get on with it," she nearly snapped.

"Well, you have to come down and see it. Whatever 'it' is." It sounded as if he didn't even know what the break even was. "I'm meeting Ryan at the station in five. How long do you think it will take for you to get changed? Lanie woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

"Thanks for the warning," she answered, before adding, "And anyway, I'm not at home. I'll be there soon." She held the phone away from her mouth, and said to Fallon, "Mark?"

He looked up from the tabletop that he was trying to pretend he was studying, but failing very miserably at. At least he was attempting to be less of an intrusive asshole. Unlike some men she knew.

"Duty calls. Rain check?"

"You owe me," he said with a purse of his lips. They both knew he meant more than just coffee.

"I know." She pressed the phone closer to her face. "I'm on my way." She hung up.

Fallon stood and cleared the table as Beckett also made her way to her feet. She waited till he was finished before running a hand through her damp hair. "This was nice."

He fought a grimace "Sure. Nice."

"Alright," she said, "It could have been better. But it really did feel good to talk; even if it was just a little."

He offered her an apologetic shrug. "Hey, that's the game. I'm here anytime you need to talk."

"I know–"

"No," he shook his head. "I'm serious. Anytime. Okay?"

His face was once again it's resolute self.

"Okay."

They walked to the door and made their way outside. It took a few minutes longer than usual to hail a cab, but Fallon eventually waved one down for Beckett. Although she nearly refused to take the first one, she finally settled in the cozy enclosure and bid him goodbye.

With a pained look, he said nothing and shut the door.

He was still working on the 'goodbye' thing.

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

Beckett had barely broken through the swinging, double doors of the morgue when a smirking Esposito sidled up on her left side and a weary looking Ryan coasted to her right. She tried to ignore the widening smile on the Hispanic's face, but she knew that eventually he'd open up his mouth and ruin her already dwindling good mood.

Just before they entered Lanie's autopsy room, Beckett stopped and turned slowly. "What?"

"Who's Mark?" Esposito questioned, his brown eyes squinting as he tried to intimidate his boss.

"A _friend_," she stressed. "And also none of your business."

"Come on," he whined.

"Seriously, Esposito?" Beckett crossed her arms across her chest, and stood up taller. "We're here to solve a murder case; not to discuss who I may or may not be dating."

Ryan said nothing as he helplessly cast his pale blue eyes toward his partner. Esposito, however, latched on to one word and ran with it. "Dating? So, you two are together then?"

She almost told him to stop being nosy, but noticed what he was doing. Well, aside from _actually_ being nosy, he was pulling the protective brother card. Beckett sagged a little underneath his scrutinizing but warm stare. "We're not, Javi. Mark is just my friend. I swear."

He cocked his head slightly, as if trying to decide if she was lying or not, before sighing pitifully. "Man," he groaned, "Nobody is getting any around here."

"I would hope not," Lanie shockingly called out as she rounded the far corner. "It's a morgue. There's _dead_ people here."

"Lanie," Beckett sighed in relief. "What've you got?"

* * *

An hour later, the trio of detectives exited the morgue with a definitive break in their so-called "Doogie Howser" case. Esposito rushed off with the orders to obtain a history of the decease's financial records while Ryan was told to re-watch every surveillance tape they had collected over the investigation. However, as Beckett was on her way to her desk for her part, Ryan stopped her with an outstretched arm and waited till his partner disappeared from view.

Somewhat sheepishly, he produced her cellphone from his pocket and handed it over. "Here," he offered. Before she could retort in anger or confusion, he held up a hand and forestalled anything she was going to say. "I know. Esposito lifted it from you while you were checking out the vic."

Beckett inhaled nervously, but gave the younger man a cool-eyed look. "Find anything interesting?"

He shook his head. "I made him hand it over as soon as he opened your recent calls list." Beckett groaned inwardly, but again Ryan shook his head. "Don't worry, he didn't see anything."

She perked a brow. "But you did?"

"By accident," he assured her, "And I won't say a word if you don't want me to."

She studied him carefully, and noted his earnest expression. Pocketing her phone, she sighed and offered a small smile. "We're just friends."

"Okay," he supplied. He grinned, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and took a few steps back. "I'm going to go watch those tapes. Again."

"And again and again and again, if you breathe a word," she called out jokingly. When he too disappeared, Beckett gave herself a face-palm and closed her eyes tight. With a sharp exhale, she squared her shoulders and made her way to the elevators.

It wasn't as if the idea of trying to date Fallon never crossed her mind, and vice versa. But when it came down to it, they were like two broken pieces from the same disintegrating puzzle; too jagged and warped to even begin and try to fit together. They silently acknowledged the fact, and moved on.

Although, she would have been an inept detective if she hadn't noticed how any time she offered Fallon any sort of physical comfort, he always seemed to lean in and forget himself. She figured it was because the man was lonesome. If he was like she thought he was, and hoped he wasn't, there probably wasn't a single soul after his wife's death. Not even mindless flings just to forget and let go for a night. It saddened her more than she thought it should.

Shaking her head clear of those thoughts, Beckett stepped off the elevator and into the empty bullpen. She could see Esposito's curious eyes peeking around his computer, as she walked towards the break room. She narrowed her eyes at him, and amusedly smiled when he hunkered down when he was noticed. She grabbed a mug, and turned towards the espresso machine that Castle had bought years before. With a heavy sigh, she returned the mug and exited the room.

* * *

Rather than wait for another cab to pass him by, Fallon opted to walk home. He shrugged deeper into his jacket, and cursed himself for not thinking to dress in thicker clothing. The rain continued to pour down, splattering to the pavement in thick drops. He shook his head roughly, shivering as a few stray beads of water snaked down his neck.

The pounding bass from a nightclub reverberated though his body as he walked pass, causing him to scowl. He always hated the club life, even when he was a young man. He always tended to drift towards the neighborhood bars that the same old men frequented; ones where they swapped stories of the old days and lived vicariously of the new through the young folks. Fallon really missed going to the bar, and knocking them back as good as the old-timers.

In the midst of his reminiscing, Fallon found himself being shoulder-checked by a much taller, beefier man. Immediately he withdrew his hands from his pockets, but kept them at his side until he analyzed the situation and the perceived threat. When he looked up, he was surprised to find the one and only Richard Castle apologizing profusely.

Just as the younger man issued another apology, Fallon finally held up a hand and said brusquely, "Castle. It's okay."

Castle took a step back, flustered, and craned his head to see who he was speaking to. It took a moment before a flicker of recognition lit up his face. "Agent Fallon? Is that you?"

"In the flesh," he replied gruffly, slipping his hands back into the warm crevices of his pants.

"Oh, wow. How-how are you? It's been, what? Years?"

Fallon couldn't stop the small smile of amusement from perking his lips as Castle spoke. It was as if the man had so much to share and say, and couldn't take a pause for breath for fear of forgetting what was on his mind. He figured writing was a great release for the talented kid.

"I'm fine, thanks." He deliberately replied slowly.

Castle jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the club, and grinned. "I was enjoying an after party for my latest novel. It's still going on, if you want to join us." He wiggled his brows. "There's some pretty hot ladies in there too."

Fallon's smile was a little tighter than necessary, but the man was tired and growing annoyed.

"No. Thanks." He started to take a few steps forward, circling the taller man as he added, "It's late, and I have to get home."

"Oh," Castle's face fell slightly, and he shrugged as if unaffected. "I understand."

Fallon paused, and frowned. "You alright?"

The responding, "Fine," was just as false and hollow as his smile.

The former agent rolled his eyes, and set his jaw. "Okay, Castle. I'm calling you on it." He turned his back and started walking away with purposeful strides, until he stopped and turned his head. "Well, c'mon."

Without a word, Castle scrambled after him like a puppy following his master. Fallon briefly wondered if the man always blindingly trusted people he barely knew. They walked side-by-side down the street, until Castle cleared his throat and glanced askance at the stockier man. "Where are we, uh, going?"

"An old haunt," he replied bluntly.

It didn't take too long before they were entering a dark, 'hole in the wall' bar. There was one patron, draped over an empty glass and fighting to stay awake, as the bartender bopped his head to the music and wiped down the counter. The only sound was the soft crooning of Frank Sinatra from an unseen speaker. Fallon gave the man behind the bar a friendly smile.

"Hey, Mark." He reached over the counter and firmly shook the man's hand. "How're you doing? I noticed you stopped coming in, and I had hoped that it wasn't because something bad had happened to you."

Fallon grimaced. "I'm doing alright, Jack. Thanks."

Jack's smile slipped a little, and he looked uncomfortable as he asked, "Are you okay to be in here? I don't want to be the one to ruin anything, here, and I'm not sure how this stuff works..." He trailed off and rubbed the back of his thin neck.

Fallon held up a hand, as if to stop him from adding anymore, and raised his shoulders marginally. "Some days are easier than others, but I'm okay. I'll just settle for a coke, and get this guy a good scotch, will you?" He patted Castle firmly on the back once.

Castle, absolutely bewildered and somewhat disappointed that this "old haunt" wasn't the one he had hoped it was, sat down on a stool. Fallon sat on the one to Castle's right, closer to the front door, and in between the dozing drunk and the writer. He was always trying to strategically plant himself in a room; always unsure of the unforeseen circumstances that could occur, and the normally unfamiliar surroundings.

Jack speedily produced two glasses for his customers, sliding them professionally in front of them before turning his back and fiddling with a sputtering machine. Castle took a deep sip from his, and grimaced at the biting taste. He motioned towards Fallon's drink, and smirked. "What's that about? Are you a drunk or something?"

"Couth," Fallon drawled, "Learn it." He swallowed his own drink roughly. "About," he scrunched the left side of his face in concentration, "Nine months sober?" He shrugged unapologetically. "You kind of lose count when you're trying to block the whole thing from your memory; rather than focusing on it every damn day."

Castle, for his part, blanched and almost choked on his second gulp. Sputtering, he tried to save himself by muttering, "I didn't mean– I'm sorry. I had no idea–"

Fallon nodded and raised a brow in amusement. "Cool it, Castle. It's fine."

Embarrassed, Castle opted to slightly turn his body the other way, and take a longer drink while not meeting Fallon's eyes. Finally, he set the beverage down and nudged it until it was almost entirely out of his reach. The smeared ring of water he left provided a nice distraction to play with as he asked, "Okay, so why am I here?"

Fallon blinked slowly in astonishment. He leaned forward, his elbows planted on the red mahogany, and popped an unshelled peanut in his mouth. "_You_ followed _me_."

Castle didn't know how or when the salted nuts arrived, but he eagerly grabbed a few for himself. "Well, yeah," he said, dumbfounded. "But you told me to."

"I figured you wanted to talk."

A deep crease developed between Castle's wrinkled brows. He leaned back in his seat, and slowly chewed on the now gummy paste in his mouth. "I don't want to push my problems on you," he professed in his deep baritone.

"Listen," Fallon started, "I can see you're dying to say something, whatever it may be, and I'm offering to listen willingly." He turned his head and looked the other man in the eye. "Who else is going to do that?" He took a swig of his bubbling soda as Castle's lips twitched in apprehension.

"That's very true," Castle conceded with a tilt of his head. He couldn't think of too many people who would _offer_ to listen to his so-called inane ramblings. He sagged in his seat, and pulled the glass of scotch closer. If he was going to open his mouth, he wanted to reinforce his "it was the alcohol" excuse by physically being seen drinking it. "I don't know." He sighed.

Fallon stared straight down into his glass of brown coke, fighting the urge to ask Jack to supply him with something much stronger. "Well," he prodded, "Tell me what you do know." He threw back another gulp as if he was knocking down shots at a frat party.

"Are you sure?" Castle asked hesitantly.

Fallon minutely lifted his head so that Castle could see the implacable look on his tired face.

Castle pulled back anxiously. "Okay. I was dating...someone." He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Fallon didn't miss the side glances that Castle kept throwing his way; as if the former agent was going to read his mind and immediately know to whom he was referring to. The writer didn't need to know that he knew anyway.

"She broke up with me," Castle continued. His eyes were downcast, and his voice broke slightly. Fallon noticed the way the bulkier man squared his shoulders, and hunkered over his scotch as if he was physically being weighed down by the pain of it. "It still hurts." He took another deep gulp of the burning alcohol, as if saying, "There. I said it."

Fallon waited a beat before asking, "Why'd she break it off?" He kept his voice neutral. He was well versed in the tactics of an interrogation, despite how the last few ended up. The curiousness that welled up he tried to tampered down, trying to needle what little facts he could from the fast-talking writer that he couldn't from the tight-lipped detective.

Castle audibly huffed. He wrapped a large hand around his cup, but made no move to drink from it. "She said I was too closed off from her; that even though I hold my heart on my sleeve, I didn't open it up." He sighed heavily. "I guess that she didn't know enough about me, and every time she tried to pry into my past, I just shut her out."

Fallon tried to keep his gruff tone non-accusatory when he questioned, "You guess or is it true?"

"Sometimes I didn't share things," Castle admitted with a meager shrug. "It's not that I didn't want to. I just didn't know how."

There was a change in music as the swinging music of the '40s gave way to the upbeat "Walk Of Life." The supposedly sleeping drunk lifted his head from the counter, and loudly slurred, "I love this song! Damn Straights."

Jack, who had long walked away from whatever he had been tinkering with, laughed. "Dire Straits, Chuck, but close enough."

Chuck wildly waved a hand in the bartender's general direction, and then promptly passed out. Jack shook his head, and returned to reading the novel he had tucked away in the corner with. Fallon pursed his lips, and turned back to his conversation with Castle.

"Did you tell her that?"

Castle eyelids fluttered distractedly. "Tell who what?"

After a pointed glare, Castle snapped his fingers as it registered. "Oh, right. No."

"Why not?" Fallon tossed back another peanut, and chewed slowly.

"I didn't know how," Castle said haltingly, as if confused about what part Fallon wasn't getting.

"Funny," Fallon remarked without a trace of amusement.

"How's that?"

The older man closed his mouth, and discreetly swiped a tongue over his teeth. He rubbed a greasy finger over an eyelid. "You're a writer, and you didn't know how to put your thoughts into words." He gave him a shark-toothed, pearly white smile. "That's funny."

A look of both hurt and bemusement crossed over the author's ruggedly handsome face. He couldn't tell if they were still having a conversation, or if this was turning into an ugly confrontation. He also found himself a little surprise by how much he didn't mind the latter happening. The pent up anger was beginning to eat at him and his fist ached to mindlessly pound something, whether it be a typewriter or someone's body. The thought almost scared him.

"Hardly," he retorted humorlessly.

Fallon simply hummed in reply, tossing back a handful of peanuts. He needed this. His body began to thrum with anticipation, as adrenaline began to awaken his weary body with the prospect of a fight. They both needed this.

The agent took a deep breath, and patted his thighs as if trying to decided something. He grabbed his soda, gulped the rest of it down, and smacked his lips softly as he abruptly stood. He pointed to Castle's scotch and said, "You're going to want to finish that."

Castle scrambled to his feet, tossing back his drink with a hoarse cough and grimace, before slapping money down on the counter. He pushed himself away from the bar, and nervously ran a hand through his hair as Fallon calmly turned towards the bartender and caught his attention.

"Do you mind if we pop out back, Jackie?"

The younger man scowled. "I thought I told you not to call me that."

"I told you not to call me Mark," he noted.

"You said I could," he protested with a laugh, crossing his lanky arms across his chest.

"I was drunk," Fallon replied dryly.

Jack rolled his eyes, collected the cash, and shrugged. "You know the way out."

Fallon rapped his knuckles on the counter, and nodded curtly. He started towards the back of the unlit section of the building. "Castle."

Castle followed, a little unsure and more than worried. Jack counted the green money he held, and didn't look up when he called out, "Don't make a mess!"

Fallon just waved a hand over his shoulder as he disappeared into the black. He rolled his shoulders back, his jacket tightening at the seams. He leaned into the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the back alley. The night sky blanketed the back street in it's inky oppressiveness as the icy air bit his skin. Despite the cold, Fallon removed his jacket and carefully placed it atop of a closed dumpster.

There was only one light in the alley; right above the door that was currently opening. Castle stepped out with the words, "What are we doing?" on his lips but the cracking sound of bone on bone, Fallon's fist against Castle's chin, stopped him from getting passed the word, "What."

Castle stumbled to the side, and clutched his jaw. "What the _hell_, Fallon!?"

He circled Castle's bent form like a predator, a snarl on his face. He shook his hands out, and raised them in a semi-fighter's stance. "We're venting."

Castle straightened up, shook his head hard, and blinked rapidly. Fallon lashed out with a right jab, catching Castle square in the nose. The man stumbled back, his hands reaching up to cup his face as his back slammed into the brick building. "I'm a former alcoholic, whose wife was killed, and who has a lot of unresolved anger issues."

He advanced forward. "You," Fallon continued in his low growl, "Are a broken-hearted mystery writer, that can't say what he thinks when it truly matters." He tried another jab, deliberately holding in his true strength as Castle barely jumped out of the way in time. "And it's just eating you up, isn't it?"

"Are you insane?" Castle demanded. He moved away from the wall, fully aware of being boxed in, and not wanting to experience another blow.

Fallon stopped his advancement, and held his hands out in surrender. His face was shrouded in darkness; the lone bulb illuminated enough of his face to reveal his distressed expression. "Look, Castle. I'm sorry." He rubbed a hand over his face, and closed his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he added, "But I can tell you need this. And whoever you pray to knows I need it too."

Castle, his body tense in anticipation for another strike, straightened and frowned. Then he narrowed his eyes, raised his fists in a mock intimation of the Fighting Irish, and nodded once. It was all Fallon needed to continue. Of course, the former agent knew it was entirely unfair to unleash his full arsenal of moves on the other man, but he read Castle's file too. The man knew a few things when it came to fighting and defending himself.

Fallon stepped forward, his trained body attempting to force his mind to slow down and think out every move like a chess match, but the burning need to burrow his fists in something was growing stronger with every second. Fallon growled, and rushed forward, tackling Castle at the waist and bringing the two of them down to the dark pavement in a tangled heap.

Castle grunted as the air was forced from his body. Fallon struggled to straddle the bigger man, his left arm holding down Castle's dominant hand as his own right pounded into the man's soft belly. Castle swung his own clenched hand until it connected with the side of Fallon's head. The agent, stunned when the meaty hand struck, fell to the side and scrambled to get to his feet. Castle, knowing the other man was definitely not going to stay down for long, was struggling to stand the second he hit Fallon's face.

Just as the stockier man was straightening up, Castle threw an uppercut that caught Fallon's jaw, and snapped his head back. The writer blinked in surprise, then began to shake his hand in pain. "Ow," he whined as Fallon rubbed his jaw with a wince.

"I'd say," he grumbled. "You pack a punch." A trickle of blood smeared his lower lip, and coated his upper teeth when he grinned.

Castle rubbed the back of his head, and went to point out the blood when Fallon stepped forward. Castle feebly managed to block one blow, when another caught him in the side of the head. He stumbled back towards the bar door, his back nearly being pressed into the building, but he knew that wasn't a good idea. When Fallon moved in, Castle reacted by reaching out and grabbing Fallon's arm and throwing him against the wall instead.

His head connected with the brick, and he let out a low groan. He hadn't expected Castle to literally throw him around. He bent over, one hand resting against the building as he struggled to stay focused, when Castle grabbed him from behind and furiously pummeled into the back of his head. Fallon struggled to reach for the taller man's arms, and he realized that Castle had a lot more pent-up anger than he originally thought.

Castle had one forearm wrapped around Fallon's throat as the other continued to pound at his exposed face. Fallon, whose vision was seriously getting more than a little dark and fuzzy around the edges, dug his fingers into Castle's arm and tried to pry it away from his throat as he tucked his chin down. When he managed to create enough space for his elbows, Fallon brought his right one back with as force as he repeatedly could. Castle pulled away, wrapping his arms around his pained ribs.

Fallon gasped as the damp air rushed back into his lungs, and staggered to his knees. "Jesus," he stated hoarsely. He blindly reached out to find something to support his weight, and felt his rain-slicked fingers slide across the oily siding of the dumpster. He grimaced, closed his eyes, and made no move to get off his aching knees.

"Are we still fighting?" Castle managed to rasp out from somewhere behind him.

Fallon waved his left, and coughed up a wad of pink spit. "Give me a sec." With some effort, he pushed himself off the ground, ignoring the pebbles and clumps of dirt that embedded themselves in the palms of his hands. He slowly turned to face Castle, who was bent over and resting his hands on his knees, fighting to breathe.

"You know," Fallon wheezed, "For someone who doesn't know a thing about fighting tactics, you sure make up for it in brute strength."

"Thanks," Castle croaked.

Fallon took a deep breath, then made to move and attack again. However, Castle opted for the offensive, and chose to run forward and not hang back to let the trained man beat him down. He let out what he thought was a pretty ferocious roar, and seized Fallon from around the middle, and barely registered the fist punching at the back of his neck as he brought the smaller man down.

Unable to protect his head, once again, Fallon realized too late that he would need to do something to keep his skull from being split in two. That was easier said than done as his feet were no longer touching the pavement, and he was falling backwards with a moose of a man on top of him. Castle had started to let go as they fell, and he managed to push himself more to the side than on Fallon, as Fallon's arms uselessly pinwheeled in the air to stay upright. He splayed his arms out by his side in an attempt to cushion his body from the impact, but his head still slammed against the wet ground.

Castle crawled over, grabbed Fallon by the collar of his shirt, and raised his first to land more solid blows before he realized that the former agent was already out cold.

"Fallon?" He uselessly grabbed the man's chin and wiggled it back and forth. "Hey, you okay, buddy?" He crawled up Fallon's body, placing a hand on his chest as he pressed his ear to his parted mouth. The steady fall and rise of Fallon's chest made Castle sag in relief. He rolled to the side, on his back, and ignored the puddle that soaked into his clothes.

There was an agonized groan, then a grunted, "How long was I out?"

"A minute," Castle replied exhaustedly. "Tops."

"Oh," Fallon blinked up into the night sky, beads of water gathering on his dark lashes. "Good."

They lie together, ignoring the frigid cold, and the water that seeped through their clothing. Rain steadily fell down in a light sheet, coating the two in its shiny wetness. Finally, Fallon slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position and lightly patted Castle on his tender stomach.

"Come on, big guy. Let's get you home before your family starts to worry."

Castle only managed a low moan in response.

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.**


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